


Ceramic

by Sombre



Series: Mind Games [2]
Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Inaho knows exactly what he's doing, M/M, Sunday Brunch, light humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 09:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8706658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sombre/pseuds/Sombre
Summary: In which Inaho shows he understands one must confuse their prey before they attack.





	

Innocent though it seemed, Slaine didn’t like it.

He awoke that morning to find a small black box next to his pillow. In it was crinkled grey tissue paper, cradling a small card that read, “By the staircase.”

It was Sunday.

Specifically, it was the last Sunday before the end of winter vacation. The Sunday marking the end of cold feet in a warm bed, hot chocolate and tree-shaped cookies, and glorious sleeping in. The last day before the hell of homework and exams. Peace.

The little black box just oozed _not-peace_. Also, he essentially lived alone. What.

Slaine rose reluctantly out of bed, half expecting a hand to snatch at his ankles when his feet touched the carpet. The bedroom, a deep grey from the snow-heavy clouds, nearly coaxed him back to sleep. Mmm. 10:32am. More sleep would have been nice.

Curiosity and anxiety dragged him to the staircase, which was adorned with another black box. “Coffee or Tea?” read the note inside. “Please say aloud.”

Openmouthed, Slaine looked over his shoulder. He thought briefly of peaking inside his father’s room, but there was no way he would be back from his research trip in Alaska, not this soon. And he definitely wouldn’t do something like this.

So Slaine swallowed and said, “Tea.”

Nothing happened.

He took a step downstairs, then thought better of it and grabbed the old curtain rod that had been sitting at the back of his closet for months. When he returned to the stairs, yet another black box had been perfectly placed, this time at the center of the bottommost step.

Just who the hell was in his house?

Tightening his grip on the curtain rod, he inched down, careful not to let a single step creak. At the last step, he glanced around. No movement. No sound. He poked the box with the curtain rod and swallowed again. Still nothing happened.

It was when he began to shiver, feet bare against the cold wood, that he began to wish he was armed with something more than a curtain rod.

He opened the box. A third note.

“Scrambled or Over-easy? Please say aloud.”

Slaine stared, unblinking. The thought occurred to him that whoever was playing this game was having him chose, in some coded fashion, how Slaine wanted to die. By the staircase. That’s where they would find his body. Tea. What the killer would sip as he laid him there. Somehow, it still wasn’t enough to stop him from stammering, “S-Scrambled.”

Scrambled brains, probably.

Seconds later, he could somewhat make out clanking and humming coming from the kitchen. Some mass-murdering psychopath was in his kitchen. His _kitchen._

Fucking hell.

Gulping, he descended the final step, cursing under his breath when it creaked loudly under his weight. The kitchen light was the only one that was on, shadows of movement dancing on the door’s frosted window pane. Slaine paused an inch away from it, not quite able to steady his breathing, or stop his shaking. He stared wistfully at the small bathroom beneath the stairs. Probably should have gone before getting all mixed up in this…

Right then. It was now or never. Knock the guy unconscious, call the police, find a toilet. Maybe not even in that order.

Slaine counted,

_3…_

let out the breath he was holding,

_2…_

tightened his grip on the rod,

_1…_

There was a sneeze from inside and Slaine moved, screaming and charging in at full force. Only, once inside, he slipped and nearly fell flat on his face, desperate to stop his own momentum, the rod scrapping loudly against the tile and counterbalancing his weight. He just barely missed his target.

_“Inaho?!”_

The other boy, wrapped in a navy-blue apron, blinked with only minor surprise, mug in one hand, plate in the other. “Oh,” he said. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”

“Wha…?” Slaine wheezed, eyes wide. _“What?”_

As Slaine struggled to catch his breath and pull himself upright, Inaho placed the—was that actually breakfast?—on the table besides a thick paperback book. “Seylum-san said I could pick this time. Remember?”

One look at the mugs on the table, and Slaine instantly understood. A matching set in deep black, with ceramic wings as handles. Bat wings.

First the nickname. Then the piercings two weeks before.

“I thought…I thought you meant another piercing! Not a different gift—I mean, I don’t—how did you even—”

He cut himself off when Inaho’s gaze shifted, from staring directly into his eyes to looking past him, behind him. A subtle shift that suddenly made Slaine feel like he was handling a wounded puppy.

“You don’t like them,” said Inaho.

“No!” Slaine exclaimed, “I mean yes—that’s not it, it’s just—” Just that Kaizuka Inaho had broken into his house and planted messages everywhere to lure him downstairs, cook him breakfast, brew what smelled like his favorite tea, _give him a gift_ , and now stare at him in his underwear.

Um.

His face flushed all the way to his ears.

“I—I need to use the bathroom.”

Inaho gave him a look as if he understood exactly, sat down, crossed his legs, and picked up his book. “That’s right, you did just wake up. Please don’t take too long; your food is getting cold.”

Slaine just stared.

“Did you just—are you _smiling?_ ”

“No.”

“Just what do you think I’ll be _doing_ in there?”

“Using the bathroom,” said Inaho, not looking up from his book. “Of course.”

As Slaine turned to leave, he started to wonder whether or not confusing Inaho with a murderer had really been a mistake. Dying of embarrassment was a thing, too, after all.

But it wasn’t until he opened the door of the bathroom that he wished he were already dead.

Inside, in a little black box and cushioned with grey tissue paper, was a travel-size bottle of lotion, and a fourth and final note.

 _Please don’t forget to wash your hands_ , it read.

_“INAHO!!”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Post story:
> 
> Slaine: *red-faced*  
> Slaine: I don’t need this.  
> Slaine: *thrusts black box with unopened lotion bottle into Inaho’s face*  
> Inaho: *blinks*  
> Inaho: But everyone’s hands dry out after washing them in the winter.  
> Slaine: THAT’S NOT WHY YOU PUT THAT THERE AND YOU KNOW IT—


End file.
